May Flowers (Part 5 of 'This Year' series)
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: If April shower's brings May flowers, than what does May flowers bring? All Charlie wanted was to be left alone to tend to his garden. Hermione Granger had other plans.
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1**

 _ **Delphinium**_ _\- plant with flower spikes: a plant cultivated for its variously colored flower spikes, especially those species with tall blue or white flower spikes. Genus: Delphinium_

"Achoo!"

The man on his knees on the dirt, amongst the weeds, tall grass and flowers turned at the sound of someone sneezing. When he saw who it was, he quickly stood and wiped the dirt off his hands onto his trousers. Before he could do anything else, the person sneezed a second time.

"Achoo!"

He arched a brow, dropped the small gardening tool from his hand and waited to see if the person – a woman he knew all too well – would sneeze again. And then she did.

"Achoo!"

The third sneeze was louder and more forceful than the first two. In fact, the woman shook her head and said, "Pardon me, must be my allergies."

Hermione Granger stood by the garden gate, her hand upon the latch. Charlie Weasley reached inside his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her.

She accepted it with a small nod of thanks, dabbing at her nose and eyes as she did.

"Allergies," she repeated as a way of explanation.

Charlie nodded in response and got back down on his knees, selecting another flower from the wooden crate to the left of his knee and continued with his toil.

"Your mother told me I might find you out here," she explained while still standing on the outside of the gate.

Deciding there was no response to that observation, Charlie went back to his work.

"What are you doing?" she asked, coming all the way through the gate, the old hinges squeaking as a way of announcing her entrance.

He thought it was perfectly obvious what he was doing, so instead of answering her, he continued to place the flower in his hand into the small hole he had just dug into the earth.

"What sort of flower is that?" she asked, coming to stand beside him. He looked up at her quickly, the sun shined bright behind her curly hair, making it appear to be more honey gold than the rich mahogany that he knew it to be.

She smiled. "It's pretty. It's called a delphinium, isn't it? My mother used to plant those in our back garden. I think I like the blue ones the best, don't you?"

Looking at the small blue flower he held in his hands, he wondered why she kept asking him questions, but it didn't matter, as he didn't feel inclined to reply. She must have sensed this, because she kept up an endless line of chattering, either as a response to his quietness or because it was just something she usually did.

She continued talking about the flower he was planting, how its various colored spikes were usually blue or white, and she ended with, "Its Genus is also Delphinium, and its name is derived via modern Latin from the Greek word, delphinion or "larkspur," literally meaning "little dolphin," from delphis, because of the shape of the flower looks almost like a dolphin."

Patting the dirt tightly around the small blue flower, Charlie looked up at her as she stopped her prattling and gave her a quizzical look. What was she going on about now?

Suddenly blushing with apparent embarrassment, she concluded, "Well, anyway, it's certainly lovely."

In Charlie's opinion, she was simply and utterly lovely, even with a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. There wasn't a flower in this garden that could compare its beauty to the beauty that was simply her. He would never tell her that, however. He would never tell her that simply because he hadn't uttered a single word for four months.

He came back to The Burrow four months ago from a dragon training center in western Romania. He'd not yet revealed the reason he'd returned, not to his mother or father or brothers or sister. Of course, they knew he had been seriously injured, and that was partly the reason he'd come back to England. The other reason for his return was his business and his business alone, although he knew that Hermione Granger wanted to make it her business as well.

But not even the lovely woman in front of him could make him tell her why he'd returned. Anyway, if he did decide to finally end his reign of silence, the first thing he would tell her was how incredibly lovely he thought she was. The second thing he would tell her was that she was trespassing on his solitude, which he supposed was rather the point of her visit.

Charlie sighed. He knew he was being rude, not greeting her or responding to her inquiries, but he didn't want to do either of those things. He wanted to be alone. He stood, walked toward her while brushing his soiled laden hands together, all the while thinking again about how pretty and fresh she looked, rather like the flowers that he was planting into the dark, cold earth at his feet.

Standing right in front of her with a blank expression on his face, he thought of how she was too pretty and fresh and clean to be here with him. She had on a white dress, with white sandals on her feet, and a white, dazzling smile upon her face. He had on dirty blue jeans, a gray t-shirt that was stained with dirt and sweat, and dirt and grime under his fingertips. He felt as dirty on the inside as he felt on the outside.

She was clean and sweet and altogether wholesome, inside and out.

She was too good and too beautiful for someone like him. Too pretty (although pretty was hardly an adequate word to describe her) and too perfect in everyway. She was breathtakingly, indescribably, better than him in every way possibly known to man.

He should know, because he'd been in love with the woman for at least five years. He was in love with her and no one would ever know. And wasn't that a perfect analogy of everything that was wrong with his life at the moment. No one really knew the real Charlie Weasley and he liked it like that – until now.

"Aren't you going to talk to me, Charlie?" she asked with a slight smile. "What are you doing out here all by yourself? Your family is very worried about you, and frankly, so am I."

Suddenly, she closed her big brown eyes, wrinkled her lovely, button nose, and sneezed for the fourth time.

That was when he decided to reply with a very simple and singular, small, "Bless you." They were the first words he'd spoken in months.

Then he turned away from her, walked back to where he began, got down on his knees and reached for another delphinium. After placing the small, blue flower into the ground he looked back over his shoulder and noticed that she was finally gone.

That thought made him both happy and sad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

 _ **Foxgloves**_ _\- plant that is source of digitalis: a tall plant that has numerous thimble-shaped purple or white flowers and is the source of the drug digitalis. Latin name: Digitalis purpurea_

The sky was gray today, overcast with dark clouds rising over the horizon. It would rain. He hoped it did not, because he wanted to stay outside in the garden today. He didn't want to spend even a minute inside with his mother and father if he could help it.

His mother continued to look at him with worry in her eyes. His father looked at him with disappointment. His brothers looked at him with compassion and curiosity. His sister looked at him with abject pity. None of them knew what to do with him. They didn't know how to help him.

That was fine with him because he didn't want help. He didn't need help. He would figure everything out all on his own if only everyone would give him a little bit of time.

Going back to work, he pulled out a tuff of weeds away from the flower he just planted, and that was when he heard the sound of the creaky hinges of the gate. He didn't look up, but he knew who it was. It was her again. He waited patiently for her to speak.

"Looks like rain," she said, coming to stand beside him. As he was on his knees and he had to look up at her to look her in the eyes. Her eyes were warm. They were brown, but not an ordinary brown. They weren't an ugly brown, like the dirt under his knees. They weren't an average brown like leather or tree bark. Her eyes were brilliant brown, with gold flecks and dark rims and more knowledge and warmth in them than any other eyes he had ever seen.

She knelt down beside him. He almost flinched when she reached over him to pick up one of the flowers he had in the crate beside him, because her hair tickled his nose and her hand skimmed his thigh. Sitting upright, she handled the little flower carefully.

"Oh," she said with an inhalation of breath. "I've always loved foxgloves. You probably already know this, but foxgloves are the plant that is the source of digitalis, an important medicine for the heart. The Latin name is: Digitalis purpurea."

She smiled and then held the small purple flower out to him. He took it quickly – he didn't want to accidentally touch her skin – and he placed it in the hole he'd just made.

He loved the sound of her voice. It was melodic and soothing. Sometimes, he almost felt in on his skin, like a whisper of a caress. He heard it beating in his heart, like a snare drum. He felt in his soul, like a symphony of something so pure and untouched that he felt washed with light just at the sound of it.

"Your mum told me that you've been tending to the garden almost everyday since your return," she stated, sitting back on her bum.

Deciding not to look at her, he dug another small hole about five centimeters from the first hole.

"I didn't know if you'd want to talk to me today or not, since you weren't so incline yesterday, but I'm pretty tenacious, as you well know, so I thought I'd give it another go today."

Leaning over, he began to pat the earth around the new flower, only to find that she had decided to do the same thing at the same time. Their hands touched – hers on top of his.

Turning his head slowly toward her, he knew he should remove his hands, but he didn't want to. Her hands were warm. He craved the warmth. Swallowing the tight knot in his throat, he finally slid his hands out from under hers and moved over to the next little piece of earth. Grabbing his hand shovel, he dug deeply into the hard packed soil.

"I decided to come out here everyday, even if I make a nuisance of myself, because someone who's suffered a traumatic injury like you've suffered, surely must need to talk to someone. I decided that I'll be that someone for you, Charlie."

The spade in his hand dinged a rock as he dropped it in shock. Why would she want to help him? They had never really had any prior relationship. She was merely his little brother's best friend, and nothing more. He might want her to be more, but she wasn't, so why did she care?

She cared because she was a compassionate person, and for no other reason. She couldn't possibly have deeper feelings for him. She couldn't possibly care for him the way he cared for her. When he finally realized that, he reached for the rock and threw it over his shoulder.

Handling another small, white flower in his hands, he placed it in the hole he'd just made and moved on to plant another.

Hermione sat down at that point, with her legs out in front of her. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she said, "I know you must not want to burden your family by talking to them, but I figured you might want to talk to someone. I'm here for you, Charlie. You must know I would never judge you. You can tell me anything."

She sneezed at that point. He looked up at her with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. What did she want from him? Couldn't she see that no amount of talking would clean his conscience? No amount of talking would set his heart free from the bindings that were wrapped around it. Couldn't she tell that his soul was an empty vessel, never to be filled again.

He wished she would just go away and leave him alone. His family stopped trying to talk to him about his accident months ago. Why wouldn't she stop?

Then, as if she'd read his mind, she said, "I'll go for today. But I'm only going because I just felt a raindrop. You might want to come inside, too, but if not, try not to get too wet. I'll come back tomorrow." She stood and walked up next to him, reached down her hand, and placed it gently upon his hair. She leaned over just as he looked up. She stared directly into his eyes and said, "I promise I'll come back, whether you talk to me or not, okay?"

With that said, she turned and walked away.

Charlie felt a fat rain drop fall from the sky and land on his cheek. He looked up and thought that perhaps the sky was crying for him. Perhaps the sky and the earth and the air and the sun cared about him as much as this woman seemed to care.

That would be a nice thought, wouldn't it?

 **A/N: Part 3 coming up. Also, the administrator at The Maple Bookshelf wanted me to let everyone know that July is considered open submission month, so if you ever wanted to submit a story but was afraid of rejection, or didn't have a beta, etc, well, here is your chance to post one. You must still follow the rules and regulations of the site, but you are more than welcome to post a story over there this month if you so desire! They accept all fandoms.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

 _ **Poppies –plants with red flowers: an annual or perennial plant that has large red, orange, or white flowers, cup-shaped seed pods, and milky sap.**_

The next day there was more humidity in the air than the day before. And even though yesterday was gray and it looked like rain most of the day, the rain stayed away. Luck wouldn't be on their side today, for there would definitely be rain today. Charlie was certain of it. Looking up, he couldn't decide if the sky was white or gray today. He suppose it was somewhere in between those two colours. A large, dark, and determined looking cloud threatened to turn the morning's humidity into a torrential downpour.

Even as he thought about the rain that was to come, he realized he had a thin layer of wetness clinging to his arms and face from just the humidity alone. If it rained he would have to stop planting flowers today, and he would have to go inside The Burrow and he would be forced to spend time with his family and he might even give in to his family's wish to converse with him.

He sincerely hoped it didn't rain. Placing his flowers, mulch, and gardening tools in a small wooden cart, he pulled it down a path near the back of the garden.  
And as determined as that cloud overhead appeared to want to turn the gray sky into a springtime storm, Charlie was just as determined not to talk to anyone today. He hadn't talked to anyone thus far, and he wasn't going to do it today, even if Hermione Granger badgered him to hell and back.

Of course, the whole 'not talking' thing was a bit of a lie. He would sometimes tell his mother good morning. Twice he told his father good night. He told George goodbye the other day when his brother left for work. He would answer questions with one word answers… yes… no… maybe. Oh, and he had spoken to Hermione two days ago, hadn't he? He had definitely told her 'bless you' when she sneezed, so there was that.

Today, however, he didn't talk to his mum or his dad when he walked past them, even though his mother had told him 'Good morning, son,' and his father had stated, 'It looks like rain, Charlie.' He didn't respond when George left for the shop and called out, 'See you later, Charlie.' He didn't reply to Ron when he'd said, 'Need any help out there today, Charlie?'

He didn't talk to anyone and he knew that was a problem but he didn't know what he should do about it. For the longer he went without talking to his family, the longer they would seek to make him talk. It was a vicious, endless cycle. It was almost ironic, because Charlie felt more like an observer in his life than a participant, even though he longed for human contact right now. He craved it almost as much as he disdained it.

If Hermione came again today, she would try to get him to talk again, he knew she would. He supposed his family hoped she would be successful in her endeavors. Oddly enough, Charlie hoped she would be successful as well. She would try to make him discuss his feelings and emotions, his fears and desires, his worries and his hopes. She would fail, of course, utterly and completely. Still, she would try. He wanted her to try.

Charlie wanted her to try to make him speak almost as much as he wanted to 'hear' her talk to him. He wanted her to try to make him speak almost as much as he didn't want to talk.

It was ironic, and it was stupid, and a waste of time.

Charlie emptied the cart and started on today's flower. He picked poppies to plant today. Poppies for remembering… poppies for forgetting… poppies for honoring the dead.

Why did he think that last thought? He was trying hard to forget the dead.

He started planting the flowers by the back fence. In a couple of weeks they would be full to bursting, a riotous display of reds and oranges peeking out between the slates of the old, wooden fence. He might not still be here to see them, but he could imagine what they would look like. They would be beautiful, just like the woman who was holding up her hand as she walked down the narrow path toward him.

"Hello there!" she called out. "Looks like it might rain today!"

Charlie secretly smiled, ducking his chin to his chest. Now that she was here, he really hoped it didn't rain today, because if it rained, she might leave. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to hear her talk to him, even if he didn't talk to her.

He needed her to talk to him. And so she did. She said, "Oh goodness, you're planting poppies today. I absolutely love poppies. I'm sure you already know all about them, but still, did you know that poppies are usually red, although the sometimes they are orange or white. They're either an annual or perennial plant that has large red, orange, or white flowers, cup-shaped seed pods, and milky sap."

Without regard to the dirty ground, she sat down beside him and continued her diatribe. "A poppy is a flowering plant in the subfamily Papaveroideae of the family Papaveraceae. Poppies are herbaceous plants, often grown for their colorful flowers. They have a pharmacology distinction, because the extract from the poppy is used in drugs like opium and other medicine. There are other plants similar to, or related to, the poppy, for example, there's the California poppy and the Welsh poppy, although these poppies are more orange-red, or a bright red tinged with orange, unlike our English 'true red' poppies."

Picking up another poppy from the cart, Charlie placed it on her leg and then wiped his hands on his trousers before picking up a second one to place in another hole in the ground. She smoothed her finger down one of the red petals of the poppy on her lap, her finger moving slowly and gently.

"The remembrance poppy has been used since 1921 to commemorate soldiers who have died in war. Today, they are mainly used in the UK and throughout the Commonwealth to commemorate their service men and women killed in all conflicts since 1914. Of course, you know that small, artificial poppies are often worn on clothing for a few days prior to Remembrance Day."

Charlie finished planting the poppy that was in his hand and he glanced at her and grinned.

She saw his smile and returned a smile to him and said, "I know, I know, I talk too much. But since you aren't inclined to talk at all, I thought I should talk even more – enough for both of us."

She stretched out her legs beside him, handed him the poppy from her lap, and then opened up an umbrella, placing it over her head. "But seriously, tell me if I'm talking too much, alright?" She looked up at the sky and said, "It really does look like rain, but I don't mind a bit of rain every now and then, do you? Oh, did you know that it rains more in May than in April, even though the old adage states that April showers brings May flowers? Well, it does."

She continued to talk about the rain, and the clouds, and the humidity, and then more about poppies, and he knew without doubt that he needed to hear her talk more than he needed anything else right now. It was nourishment for his soul. Her voice was a balm on his bruised heart.

And perhaps everyone else – his mum and dad and brothers – needed him to talk to them for that very reason, too. He would save that thought for another day. Today he was planting poppies, and listening to Hermione Granger talk about the weather.

Life might not be so bad after all.

Part 4 coming up


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

 _Hollyhocks - tall plant with showy flowers: a plant of the mallow family that has very tall hairy stems and is often grown for its spikes of variously colored flowers. Latin name: Alcea rosea_

"What are we planting today?"

Charlie was deep in the middle of the garden today and he hadn't even heard her approach. He also hadn't heard the gate's squeaky hinges, and usually, that was how he knew she'd arrived.

As if sensing his thoughts on the matter, she looked toward the gate and said, "I was a bit sneaky today. I Apparated into the garden. Hope you don't mind."

He didn't mind. He was beginning to anticipate her daily arrival. He liked having her near. Her presence calmed him, made him feel almost human again. Because deep in his mind reigned a chaotic range of emotions that he couldn't deal with yet. But out here, in the garden, he felt calmer. And with her, when she was here with him, he not only felt calmer, but he felt safer, too.

So here they were, Charlie and Hermione, in the garden together, getting ready to plant yet another flower, when she suddenly said, "Why don't we agree to answer one question of each other – honestly, mind you – each day? That shouldn't be too much of a chore, don't you think?" Hermione handed Charlie one of the flowers from the cart, a hollyhock, and then waited for his answer to her question.

She would have to wait a long time.

He got down on his knees and planted the first of the hollyhocks.

Hermione sat on the edge of the wooden cart beside him and continued, "One question a day. Easy, right?" She dropped down to her knees beside him.

Sure, asking one question a day would be easy enough, but answering said question might prove a bit more difficult, depending on what she asked. Charlie wasn't sure he was ready to answer anyone's questions.

Yet here they were, another day, and Charlie was planting another flower and Hermione Granger was trying, once again, to make him talk to her. When he didn't make a comment about her 'one question a day' request, she tapped him on the shoulder to make him look up at her. He looked quickly at her hand as it departed his shoulder.

"What's today's flower called?" she asked.

He raised one eyebrow. Did she really think he would acquiescence to her 'one question a day' request that easily? Besides, he knew without a doubt that she probably not only knew what this little, spiky flower was called, but that she probably also knew its Latin name, it genus, and everything in between.

"Is it a hollyhock?" she asked innocently enough.

Charlie couldn't help himself. He laughed. She didn't play 'ignorant' very well, and it made him laugh.

Hermione smiled slowly at the sound. "I made you laugh," she replied, seemingly pleased that if she couldn't make him talk, at least she made him laugh.

She stood up, sat back down on the edge of the cart again and said, "Fine, fine, I know it's a hollyhock. But did you know its Latin name is Alcea rosea? Because it is… its Latin name, that is." Charlie nodded as she reached into the cart and picked up another hollyhock, petting one of the white petals softly. "But no matter its nomenclature, it's awfully pretty."

Sighing loudly, she passed the flower from her hands into his. Their hands touched, briefly, but just enough to make Charlie recoil. He dropped the white flower to the ground and stood so quickly that it startled her and she slipped off her perch on the side of the cart and landed on her bum in the grass.

Well he gasped in horror at what he'd done, she said softly, "I'm sorry, Charlie." Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to touch you, honestly."

Charlie felt abjectly humiliated. Here she was, on the ground because he startled her and she was apologizing to him! Furthermore, he didn't want her to think that he thought there was anything wrong with her. It was him. He was dirty. Not just because there was dirt on his skin, but he was dirty deep inside and he felt terribly exposed and so very tired of it all. Bending at the waist, he picked up the flower he'd dropped and the spade and placed them behind her in the cart. Then he reached his hand toward her, to help her up.

She stared at his hand, then into his eyes, and then smiled the sweetest smile at him as she placed her hand in his. He pulled her up carefully, so she wouldn't pitch forward, and as soon as she was standing he dropped her hand and wiped his on his trouser leg.

She noticed that small action, even though he tried to do it quickly. She didn't say any more on the subject though. He was glad for small favors.

Charlie looked down at his hand, bringing his palm up closely to his face. It was just a hand, after all, wasn't it? She didn't mind touching him, so he shouldn't mind touching her.

He was brought out of his thoughts when she said, "We can start tomorrow, if you'd like."

He stared at her with confusion, until she clarified, "With our one question a day. I'll ask you something and then you ask me something and above all, we must answer truthfully, okay?"

Dropping his hand to his side he smiled at her and said, "Be careful what you ask for, Hermione Granger, because you just might get what you want."

She laughed and said, "Well, Charlie Weasley, that's the most I've heard you say in… well, forever. And don't worry; I know exactly what I'm getting myself into, my dear… exactly."

Part 5


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

 ** _Lilac -_** _trees flowering tree: a European and Asian shrub or small tree with strongly perfumed sprays of white, pink, or pale purple flowers._  
 _It is a member of the olive family._

It was a perfect day outside. The sky was blue, it wasn't too warm, the sun was shining, and Charlie Weasley was finally ready to tell someone his story. He was going to tell it to Hermione Granger, and he was going to do it now. He knew she was here before she even said a single word. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up at attention and his skin tingled with anticipation.

He was glad she was here. He had come to crave her company. She was becoming more and more vital to his existence… more than the air he needed to breathe and the water he needed to quench his thirst. Her presence nourished his soul. It filled the hole in his heart. It was more important to him than all the blood flowing in that long useless, dormant organ. It was even more important than the neurons flickering in his brain.

If he loved her before all of this, what could he call this even stronger feeling he felt for her now? What was stronger than love?

As he contemplated these things, he could see her walk down the path toward him out of the corner of his eye. She walked past rows and rows of blossoming flowers and shrubs. The garden was almost done. He was planting the very last of his flowers today. Soon, it would be over. It would be done. He would no longer have an excuse to escape out here – except for the occasional weeding and upkeep – and that probably meant that she would stop coming to see him.

It also meant that he was finally ready to talk and he had to do it today. He was going to tell her why he was back home. He would lay his sins and truths on the dirt path at her feet and she would either trample all over them, bury them deep in the earth, leaving them in disgust or she could pick them up and carry them in her heart, where she might even forgive him and find that she could love him as much as he loved her.

And maybe, just maybe, he could continue living in this world instead of merely existing. That would be nice. He was tired of carrying on – silently – harboring his guilt and shame quietly by himself.

If she really wanted him to talk, by all that was sacred, he would finally talk.

She was almost to him now. He could smell her scent. It was stronger and more intoxicating than the strongest fragrance from the most aromatic flower. He looked up and she was there.

"It's such a beautiful day, isn't it?" she began, but then she held up her hand and said, "No, don't answer that question. That's not my question for today. If I only get one question for you to answer honestly per day, I'm not wasting it on something as obvious and mundane as your views on the weather."

As she did on the previous days, she knelt down beside him and expounded, "Oh, you're planting my absolute favourite flower of all time today! I've always loved lilacs. I even wear a lilac scent. Can you tell?" She held her wrist up to his nose.

Charlie dropped the spade from his grasp and placed both his hands on her arm, one hand at her fragile wrist and the other on her upper arm. He inhaled her heady scent, smelling lilac and beautiful clean woman. He dropped her arm gently and then wiped his hands on his trousers.

Nodding, he managed to mumble softly, "Nice."

She looked down at his hands and asked, "Why do you always do that? Why do you always wipe your hands on your trousers after you touch me? I really want to know. That's my question for the day, by the way. I want to know why you do that."

Charlie looked down at his hands, flexing them and then balling them into fists. Standing suddenly, he took a fortifying breath and then opened his left hand and reached it toward her. Glancing first at his hand, she raised her eyes to his and then placed her hand gingerly in his grasp. There was full flesh-on-flesh contact and it made him almost dizzy. With a lump in his throat he pulled her to her feet and then walked with her toward the middle of the garden, to a weathered old bench, which was waiting for them like a beacon.

What could he tell her that wouldn't sound insane? He could hardly tell her HIS truth… that touching her was close and akin to pain. That he didn't want to soil her with his filth and guilt. That his heart was black as pitch, and that blackness might somehow travel from his heart to his skin, which would then affect her if he touched her.

That he didn't do it because there was anything wrong with her, he did it because something was terribly wrong with him.

He exhaled a ragged breath and said, "Last fall, I was training a new recruit, a young bloke, barely 18 years old. I was to teach him everything I knew about Dragon Handling. They gave him to me to teach because I was considered the best there was." He stopped and looked down at the ground, repeating, "I was the best. I was."

He stopped.

Hermione reached a hand out and touched him on the arm. Her hand felt heavy and warm on his bare skin. It also gave him the courage to continue. He turned to look at her. "I was the best, Hermione. Everyone always said so. I don't want you to think I'm bragging, because I'm not. Everyone else always said I was the best. It was just a fact. I wasn't just considered the best Dragon Handler at my reserve in Romania, either. It was well known that I was perhaps the preeminent Dragon Handler in the world. Every other reserve in the world wanted me to work for them… because I was the greatest. It's as if someone said you were smart, or you had curly hair, or you were the brightest witch of a generation. It was just a fact."

She nodded. "Your family always said that as well," she confirmed.

When he looked as if he wasn't going to continue, she urged, "Please, go on."

Before he did, he added, "It's like if someone said you were beautiful, because you are, and it would be the truth, even if you didn't say it, it would be the truth. You're beautiful, Hermione Granger. The most beautiful woman I've ever known."

He suddenly realized he was rambling. For a man who had barely spoken ten words in four months, he was rambling, and perhaps it was because he didn't want to get to the point, or perhaps it was because he had opened some sort of floodgate, but he found he couldn't stop talking now even if he tried.

"His name was Billy McKee. He was fresh out of Hogwarts. He was referred to the dragon colony by Hagrid. I guess young Billy used to help Hagrid with all sorts of animals. He had a special touch with them, or so it was said. Everyone thought he had a very bright future. He had potential. They said his potential rivaled my own at that age."

Hermione started to say something, but Charlie held up a staying hand and said, "If you don't let me finish, I'm afraid I won't continue."

She didn't say a word. She merely nodded at him to go on.

"Hagrid had told my superiors that Billy wanted nothing more than to learn how to handle dragons. He'd been fascinated with them since he was a tot. He knew all about them, too, sort of like how you know all about flowers. He knew the different species, and the different attributes of each. He knew their origins and what they ate and everything."

"He was so enthusiastic, Hermione. He reminded me of myself at that age. But by all that's sacred in this world, he didn't really know everything about them, did he? He really didn't. And that's not his fault. I guess I even realize it's not mine, but then, who's to blame, Hermione? Who?"

Hermione frowned. "Who do we blame for what, Charlie? What happened to Billy McKee?"

"Have you ever heard of a Peruvian Vipertooth, Hermione?" Charlie asked the question, but didn't wait for the answer. He stood from the bench and began to pace back and forth in front of it. "They're native to the mountains of Peru, but we had one at our reserve, on loan from a reserve in South America. Their teeth are highly venomous, and they're small compared to most dragons; this one was only about 15 feet tall. Like most dragons, their main source of food are sheep and goats, but unlike most dragon, save for the Hungarian Horntail and the Chinese Fireball, they're also known to eat humans. In fact, they especially love to eat humans, and that's what makes them so very dangerous."

Hermione started to make a sound, but she actually put her hand up to her mouth, covering it, forcing herself to stay quiet so he could continue.

Charlie stopped pacing and sunk to the ground by her feet. He couldn't move from his place on the ground if he wanted to. It was like he was planted there, just like the flowers all around him. He felt lightheaded… nauseated and unable to breath. He was certain he was going to pass out, but then he felt her hand on his back. She was rubbing her hand in small circles, and the contact gave him a lifeline. He took two deep breaths and knew that if he didn't continue his story right now, he never would, and if he didn't continue his story, he would never be free.

No one else could see them out here in the garden. He was safe from the prying, yet loving eyes, of his family. There was no one here but her and him.

He needed to tell her the whole, unmitigated truth and he needed to do it now.

"Billy was a sweet boy, a smart boy, but he was cocky. He thought he knew more than everyone else. That was the biggest difference between me at that age and him. I never once thought I knew it all. I still don't. But he did. One night he said he wanted to go study the Vipertooth, and I told him he couldn't go there, not alone. He wasn't ready. I told him that although the Vipertooth was small, he was probably the most dangerous animal at our reserve. I told him to never, under any circumstances, to go into that dragon's pen without me."

Charlie inhaled. "But I should have known he wouldn't listen. I should have been more diligent. I should have insisted. I should have enforced the rules better. I wasn't paying any mind, and that evening, after supper, when no one could find Billy, I just knew where he was. I knew it in my heart. I also knew it was too late."

Hermione fell to her knees beside him. "You don't have to say anymore, Charlie, unless you really want to, but I have a question for you. I know I told you that I would only ask you one question a day, but I'm afraid I have to ask you another."

Shaking his head resolutely, Charlie said, "What, Hermione? What do you want to know?"

Placing a hand under his chin, she forced him to look at her. "Did you force young Billy into that pen with that dragon?"

"No, but…" he started, only to have her ask, "And did you or did you not, by your own admission, warn him how dangerous the Vipertooth was?"

"I did, but…" Charlie started.

"No," she overruled. "You did everything you could. You were a mentor, a teacher, and you told him what to do, but he was a kid, and sometimes even the smartest kid can make dumb mistake. That's what makes them kids, Charlie. They think they're invincible. They don't think anything bad will ever happen to them, yet bad things happen to them everyday. And sometimes, Charlie, it really isn't anyone's fault. Sometimes, as blasé as it sounds, sometimes accidents really do just happen."

Charlie dropped his head into his hands and for the first time since young Billy McKee was killed by the Peruvian Vipertooth, Charlie Weasley began to cry. "I tried to save him, you know. I went into the pen even though all the other handlers were yelling at me to stay clear."

"That's how you became injured," she stated, not asking it as a question because she already knew she was right.

"It was too late, though. He was dead. He was only at our reserve for three days and he died. I was supposed to train him because everyone said I was the best, yet he died."

Charlie continued to cry, bending at the waist, until his head was in her lap.

"He was young," Hermione agreed, "and he was there to be trained by the best, and he died. It's a bloody tragedy, Charlie. I know you feel guilty, so I'm not even going to tell you not to feel that way, because perhaps you need to feel guilty, and by feeling guilty you can at last deal with your grief. Then, after you deal with your grief, maybe you can finally forgive yourself. And perhaps, one day soon, you'll forgive yourself and realize that while it's a tragedy that Billy died so wretchedly, it's just as much a blessing that you're still here."

He sat up. "How can you say it's a blessing that I'm here? How can you possibly think that, Hermione?"

"Because I'm in love with you, Charlie Weasley, and I for one would be completely undone, totally devastated, if you had died along with young Billy. I'm sorry if that sounds callous, but I'm glad you're alive."

Feeling as if he'd been knocked over by a boulder, Charlie said, "You love me? When did that happen?"

"Sometime between the delphiniums and the foxglove," she said with a small smile.

Charlie took her hand in his. He was no longer afraid of contaminating her with his touch, because his touch was no longer tainted with his guilt. His guilt was still there, along with his shame and fear, but it was lessened by the words she had just said. She loved him. And she was a smart woman. She was the smartest witch of her generation. Everyone always said it. Just like everyone said he was the best Dragon Handler, they always said she was the smartest witch of her generation. And if she thought it was a blessing that Charlie Weasley was alive, than who was he to naysay her?

"I love, too, Hermione," he proclaimed.

"I'm glad," she replied, placing his hand upon her cheek.

She stood and this time she was the one who reached down a hand to help him to stand. Placing his hand in hers, he stood beside her and said, "Now what?"

"Well, I know you probably think you're done with the garden, but I was thinking that some calendulas or peonies would look perfect near the walk leading up to the house."

"We could plant some of them, if you want," he said hesitantly.

"Or lupines!" she said with a gasp. "They're ever so useful, and quiet pretty, you know. I still think I like the idea of calendulas and peonies, though." She took his hand back in hers and started toward the house, still talking. "Did you know that calendulas are a member of the daisy family and that their orange and yellow flowers have traditionally been used for cooking and medicinal purposes? The Latin name is 'Calendula Officinalis' and many in the U.K. call them pot marigolds."

Charlie smiled and said, "Really?" That was when he saw his mother, father, and brothers, George and Ron, standing on the back porch. Raising his hand in greeting, he said, "Hello, Mum and Dad. Beautiful day, isn't it. How's the shop, George? Hope you've been busy. I like your hair cut, Ron. You're looking good."

Each of them looked shocked by his greeting and his small exchange of words to them. His mother started to cry, while the rest of them smiled silently.

Hermione seemed not to notice as she said, "Now, peonies are a rather showy flowering plant, a shrub belonging to the buttercup family that have large globe-shaped red, white, or pink flowers and is native to Europe, Asia, and North America. Its genus is Paeonia."

"Do tell me more, Hermione," Charlie said with a smile.

And she did. For the rest of her life. She did.

The End

 **A/N: June's story is already up at The Maple Bookshelf, if you want to go over there and read it. I am working on July's story. Also, the administrator at The Maple Bookshelf wanted me to let everyone know that July is considered open submission month, so if you ever wanted to submit a story but was afraid of rejection, or didn't have a beta, etc, well, here is your chance to post one. You must still follow the rules and regulations of the site, but you are more than welcome to post a story over there this month if you so desire! They accept all fandoms.**


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